


His Own Garden by frabjous

by GO_Library_archivist



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Gen, Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-20
Updated: 2005-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/pseuds/GO_Library_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>[story by frabjous]</b>
</p><p>Crowley and his plants, through the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Own Garden by frabjous

**Author's Note:**

> Note from [Quantum_Witch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantum_Witch/profile): This story was originally archived at [The Good Omens Library](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Good_Omens_Library), which I maintained for eight years until I closed it due to lack of funds and decreased usership. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing the GOL's stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in July 2013. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Good Omens Library collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/TheGoodOmensLibrary/profile), or through the [GO_Library_archivist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GO_Library_archivist/profile) account.

[His Own Garden](viewstory.php?sid=46) by [frabjous](viewuser.php?uid=8)

 

  
Summary: Crowley and his plants, through the ages.  
Categories: [General Fanfic](browse.php?type=categories&catid=1) Characters:  Aziraphale  
Genres:  Angst  
Warnings:  Language (mild)  
Challenges:  
Series: None  
Chapters:  1 Completed: No  
Word count: 2068 Read: 152  
Published: 20 Sep 2005 Updated: 20 Sep 2005

His Own Garden by frabjous

  
_Before the Fall_

Golden tendrils spilled forth from firmament, rich and unpolluted in the eternity and infinity of Heaven. They twirled in the air, playfully reaching out to the angel's dark locks and tickling his face--even then he had good cheekbones.

"Yes, I think you're beautiful," he whispered, deep brown eyes levitating the leaves into his long fingers. "But you need more green." The tendrils became more rigid, twining themselves around his wrist and yanking at them. "You know you want to. I'll give you broader leaves," he said, tempting it with the maple leaf he'd plucked from a nearby tree. "Ivy," he breathed with a smile, trying the name out as green as dark as malachite blossomed through the vine, and accepted a seat offered by a nearby bromeliad he'd just perfected.

The angel looked up and around him, admiring the plants he'd individually cultivated and refined until they were perfect for life on Earth. Dark lustrous leaves yawned their enormous shade above his head, and beyond, the grapefruits jiggled, their innards the exact shade of a sunset he'd watched another angel make. He had his own little garden here, of various size and shape, but everything would be scaled down before delivery to the Garden.

For now, he walked among towering ferns, their fiddleheads spiraling in miniscule patterns that had even surprised their creator. Behind them were the darker plants he'd considered letting expand, the ones that had simply made themselves, without his intervention, into vicious opportunistic bastards. He didn't know what to do with the one with sharp teeth or the one that tried to choke off the other trees. So he decided to leave them alone and talk to Azrael later about disposing of them.

With care, he made his way among the greens to a careful creation, top secret and very important...the Tree of Knowledge. It deserved capitals, because he'd spent so long on it, and because there was ever only going to be one. It was going to come with fruit ready-made, red and gleaming and perfect, and he could imagine the sweetness inside that would burst swiftly across the tongue like a bird set free into the air, and he could almost taste the lingering tartness as the glory of the first bite faded. How better to appreciate the splendour of it than to miss it once it was gone?

A rustle from the nearby Weed Division made him turn. Someone had materialised there.

"Ketheriel?" a voice called out, and with a gentle smile the angel leaned over, pulling the other up from a bed of dandelions.

"I am here, Dagon," he replied, embracing the other angel, who looked a bit shifty. There had been rumours, and gossip spreads quickly among angels. "Is there something troubling you?"

"Are you done with these...what are you calling these?" Dagon asked, wiping bits of green off his robe.

"Plants," Ketheriel said happily. It had taken him a while to decide, though there was no measure of time yet. "It's a good firm name, and they'll have to be, from what I hear is going on with this Weather they're making."

"Well are you finished?" the angel asked again, looking more nervous than ever.

"Yes I am," Ketheriel sighed, miracling a silver trowel from mid-ether. He gave the dandelions a little nudge, putting them back into line. "Mmm...these may take a bit more managing."

"We're going to have another one of these meetings of ours. We really like your attendance, and we'd love to see you around more. They are saying Samael himself has spoken at them," Dagon said. They all knew he was the favoured one.

"I don't know about this, Dagon. The plants need more work and I only came to the first couple meetings because my friends were there," Ketheriel said reluctantly, but broke as Dagon smelled a daisy and nodded approvingly.

"Please, Ketheriel. You think so much, left alone here with your...plants. And we like to hear you talk. This meeting will be particularly important, only I can't tell you until we're there," Dagon said. "Will you come or no?"

"Yes," Ketheriel said, smiling. He turned to his own garden, lush and thick with growth, and said, "I'll be right back."

What you and I might call a mere hour later, the skies of Heaven broke out in war.

_In the Garden of Eden_

A serpent slithered along a branch, following the path of a single vine of ivy as it crawled towards the Tree of Knowledge. He'd heard the announcement the day before all right. No one was to eat the fruit from the tree! A deep pain rent his heart as he thought of those innocent days spent poring over the exact taste of it, the precise shape, the red lustre of every single damned fruit! Like H-like somewhere nobody was going to eat it!

As he watched Eve approach with her big lumbering legs and her fat arse, he gave a single hiss. Crawly was going to make sure somebody tasted it, and he had a good idea who would be the perfect candidate.

"Sssssweetheart...Eve..."

_Paris, mid 1700s_

Thank Go-er-Sat-er-Louis he'd reached Paris in one piece. He was sure the place was ready for Revolution, and after that whole business with the tavern in Umbria, Crowley was certain he didn't want any more to do with the Italians. Besides, they pretty much managed themselves as far as sin went.

The flat he'd found was roomy enough, but the first thing he'd done was send out for plants to decorate the Conservatory. That's what had attracted him about the place so much...there was an enormous set of glass windows set into the ceiling to allow light in, and the lawyer who'd shown him the place said it would look very good with some plants pouring into the main gallery. The mortal was a good asset in a city like Paris, and when Crowley told him, jokingly, that he was really Hell's field agent, the man had said "oh that is quite all right, Monsieur, for I am a lawyer, and not entirely human either," in that tone middle-upper class educated folk use when they are trying to be clever in society. Crowley was so satisfied he actually paid the man for the flat instead of taking it as usual.

The first time he'd been left alone with the plants he sternly glared at every single one of them until they stood up straight. He'd been working on getting some hydrangeas to grow right, never mind that it was the middle of winter.

"Now then," he said, marching in front of the assembled ferns and trees. "I expect you to be on your best behaviour, none of this wishy-washy turgidity. You are expendable, you are not as glorious as the original from which you sprouted, and I have no qualms about plucking you into the nearest dump. If the Revolution does happen I am not letting a single disobedient plant live." He did not have to ask if they understood. Discipline must be sown early, Crowley knew, and he wasn't going to let his plants put on any airs. He could talk to them later, tell them of his dreams, his latest conquests, the newest souls reserved a place in Hell, the latest virgin tempted, the oldest priest damned.

"Oh Crowley it is gorgeous," said 'Monsieur Fell' as he walked through the Conservatory to take coffee with the demon. "However did you make it grow so beautifully in the middle of winter?"

Crowley glared at the fern trying to brush up against Aziraphale's leg, and shrugged. "They know better than to wilt when I'm around, angel. How do you take it?"

"Cream, two sugars, please. Thank you so much," the angel said, adjusting his waistcoat and sitting down. "I'm just in from Germany, Crowley...what is it you're calling yourself now?"

"Anthony J. Crowley, Msr Fell," said the demon with a smirk, and his snake eyes flamed in pleasure as the angel took his hand and cupped it against his cheek. The angel was always so warm, and being cold-blooded had its drawbacks.

"Anthony," mused Aziraphale. "Worthy of praise. How daring!"

"Yes, I imagine it would be, when the most exciting thing you're doing is in Germany," Crowley replied. "I've been thinking..."

"If you want exciting, Voltaire is at M. de Bernieres and he says the most shocking things," Aziraphale said, trying to defend his dubious position as Excitement Czar. "You think so much, left alone here with these great handsome plants. You should come with me to the salons."

Crowley hesitated, and somewhere in the mists of memory he remembered another conversation that had gone like this. Poor K, alone with his plants, always thinking. It had been so long ago, yet the taste of sulfur was still fresh in his mouth. He shook his head and said, "You think that's exciting, I went to the most devillish royal soiree last night and I overheard..."

They talked long into the evening, and then the following morning, over everything, over nothing at all, and the Conservatory was filled with the smell of coffee and wine and growing things.

_Closer to Now_

When Crowley first moved into the London flat he'd taken his houseplants with him, which surprised Aziraphale, who had been strolling casually towards the Mayfair block of flats until he spotted a very familiar demon wrestling with a giant terra cotta pot he really shouldn't have been able to lift so easily.

"My dear Crowley, what a surprise to see you! How was Sri Lanka?" he asked, moving to help. "I read the Times every day."

Crowley tried spitting out the leaf stuck into his mouth, and said in a very muffled way, "the usual war stuff, and it'll fester well enough if you leave it alone." The door opened of its own accord for them, and they manoeuvred it awkwardly into the flat and onto the floor by the window. The demon gave the plant an admonishing slap for being unmanageable, and Aziraphale thought he heard a whimper.

"Well it is so good to have you back," he said, taking Crowley's hand. He thought he could see the plants snicker, but pressed on, "they move your assignments so frequently."

"Nothing I can do about it, and it's not like you were there to thwart me. You know me, I hung around the bars and when the killing started whatever the H-what in oh bollocks--" the demon was interrupted by being squished against the angel and hugged fiercely. "Angel..."

"Shush," Aziraphale said, closing his eyes and smelling Crowley's scent as the demon flailed his limbs. He smelled like sweat and spice and a hint of seduction, but most of all he smelled like soil and the jungle and the rich rust of iron in the ground where blood was spilt. No sulfur, no brimstone. And Crowley always tasted like heat and the slip of wind over leaf. When he finally let Crowley push him away, Aziraphale realised he'd been panting.

"Not in front of the plants!" Crowley said, his face flushed and his eyes bright and flamed. He was panting too, but he couldn't let this go any further. The African violet tittered and he was sure his banana tree was leering. With a glare he tightened his tie and yanked his collar straight, and stared pointedly at each and every leaf until it strained to be prettier.

"Why not? It's not like they're watching," Aziraphale protested, but Crowley dragged him to the bedroom anyway, blessing along the way. Behind them, the voyeuristic greenery let out a sigh of relief.

 

  
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

This story archived at <http://library.good-omens.net/viewstory.php?sid=46>


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